


Discretion

by Geenee27



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geenee27/pseuds/Geenee27
Summary: “In hindsight Jack was willing to admit that it was at least partly his fault. In the moment, however, he was perfectly happy to lay the blame on Hugh Collins, mainly because he happened to be standing the closest. ”





	Discretion

Mr. Tobias Butler, butler and angel incarnate, was busying himself at the sink when he heard the heavy footsteps retreat from the front foyer and turned around as the young man came into the kitchen, leather helmet under his arm.

 

“Good day Hugh, your son is playing in the garden with his minder, shall I get him for you?,” the older man asked kindly, his expression as professionally neutral as always however there was a bit of a twinkle in his eyes.

 

“No thank you, Mr. Butler, I'll just call him in.” Hugh leaned out the back door and called his son's name.

 

“Daddy, Daddy,” came the far off excited cry and he heard little running footsteps that became progressively louder until there was a tap, clomp, tap on the patio tile floor.

 

Hugh Collins looked down at his four year old son and his expression quickly turned from one of fond expectation to horror. The little boy's appearance was appalling, a very unusual occurrence. Young Arthur was usually impeccably turned out, thanks to a fastidious mother who took great care that he was always presentable to the outside world. As a good Christian mother should, she often stated. Dorothy (Dot) Collins may appear to be a sweet, mild mannered young woman, however when it came to her children she was a bit of a mother bear, no make that a full blown determined mother bear. She insisted that her son be clean and polite and respectful at all times.

 

Arthur John Collins had begun the day dressed a pristine short sleeve collared shirt, pressed short pants, straightened socks and well polished shoes. His glorious golden curls had been tamed for the most part with the use of a little of his father's pomade. However, at this moment he was anything but cherubic. His curls swirled madly around his chubby, grubby face; muddy streaks painted his brow and cheeks. The previously pristine shirt was dishevelled, shirttail pulled from the waistband of his shorts, and covered in the aforementioned mud. Blades of grass stuck to the front placard, staining it green; the top button also had apparently been yanked free. Socks languished down around his ankles and one shoe appeared to be missing.

 

Young Arthur had also managed to grace his short pants and knees with the same evidence of having rolled around in the garden. The pièce de résistance however was the condition of his arms, he wore muddy rubber gloves which were much too large for his tiny hands and they stretched from the tips of his fingers to above his elbows.

 

And what was perhaps almost as alarming to the father as the state of his son was the cheeky grin of absolute delight that was spread from ear to ear. The boy, oblivious to the issue at hand, was apparently very, very pleased with himself and his accomplishments this afternoon.

 

Senior Constable Collins quite often felt a step or two behind his mentor and boss, and his boss's detecting partner, however in this instance it took him no time at all to detect that he and his son were in fair bit of trouble. He needed to quickly and quietly secret his son from the scene of the crime, which included a muddy trail of tiny footprints from the back kitchen door, as soon as he could before his wife found ...

 

“Hugh Collins!!!! ... Mother Mary and all the saints!!! What on earth...?!,” Mrs. Collins had managed to stealthily descend the back stairs and appear unnoticed and now stood stock still in the doorway to the kitchen, laundry basket in hand. She stared gobsmacked at the scene before her and promptly dropped the basket with a thud to the kitchen floor as she crossed herself. Hugh, still in uniform as he had only just gotten off shift and was here to pick up his family, made a feeble attempt to screen the miscreant behind him.

 

Dot rounded the table and looked down, open mouthed, so shocked she was unable to speak again for a few moments. Her little angel innocently looked up at her and proudly thrust his hands out for his mother to investigate.

 

“Look mommy, I has made a pie.”

 

Mommy looked up at Daddy and glared. “Is this what you call keeping an eye on your son while I pack up to leave?” Hugh started to sputter, to explain, when there came a baby's wail from a bassinet in the corner of the kitchen. Exasperated, Dot raised her hands, palms up as if in hopelessness, then huffed.

.

 

Mr. Butler, who had discreetly gone to take stock in the pantry appeared back in the kitchen as if on cue.

 

“Mr. Butler, I need to run home for a minute, but I will return shortly to clean up this mess. So sorry about your kitchen,” Dot fussed angrily as she put her employer's laundry basket to rights and hurriedly began to gather both children so as to herd them out the back door to their cottage next door. As she was negotiating the bundle in her arms and the dirty, mussed toddler out, The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, owner of said premises, appeared at the door dividing dining room and kitchen. Placing a case file on the kitchen table and removing hat and gloves, she watched with silent mirth as her companion and right hand woman shepherded the whole crew and stomped away.

 

Hugh, who had been too slow to escape, looked up, smiled nervously and was about to profess his profound regret when the true guilty party in all this materialized into Phryne's line of vision and leaned against the back door frame. He had watched the harried mother swiftly propel her children home from a convenient hiding place in amongst the ferns.

 

Phryne smirked as her crime fighting partner peered in to see if the coast was clear only to spy his subordinate and grimace sheepishly.

 

“Not very brave of you to let Hugh be the point man in that direct assault, Detective Inspector.”

 

“Sometimes discretion is the better part of valour and I am nothing if not studiously practical, Miss Fisher, as you well know.”

 

Phryne eyed the man, he was not in any better state then Arthur. Unruly curls dipped across his brow; he had dirt smudges all over his face and his gloved hands and forearms were filthy. Thank goodness he had worn an old collarless shirt and moleskin trousers when he had offered to come over on his day off to attend to the garden. And apparently he had managed to corrupt a minor in his nefarious labours this day.

 

“Well Falstaff, I think you owe the Collinses some sort of recompense for thoroughly leading their son astray. And causing Hugh untold grief with his wife. You are as bad as a four year old."

 

The Inspector gifted her with that rarest of things, a full face smile and lifted his filthy gloves. “Making mud pies is very serious business.”

 

“... And obviously without remorse,” Phryne tsked wryly.

 

Hugh looked like a deer caught in the headlights as he tried to follow this exchange and swallowed. He was going to stay well out of this argument. Which was usually his want to do with these two, because quite frankly they confused him. Especially when the communicated silently.

 

“Wouldn't it be nice Hugh if your superior officer gave you a few hours off tomorrow so you and Dot could spend some time alone together?,” Phryne addressed the constable with her sweetest smile, a lilt in her voice.

 

Jack started, blinked widened eyes and began to protest.

 

  

“We would be happy to look after Arthur and Little P., wouldn't we Uncle Jack?”

 

Jack shook his head back and forth, saw a whole novel in the lady detective's eyes that included an implied ending that did not bode well for any future plans he had for this evening if he did not comply, then nodded up and down. As he had mentioned, discretion was the better part of valour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'Discretion is the better part of valor. Caution is preferable to rash bravery.' Said by Falstaff in King Henry the Fourth, Part One, by William Shakespeare.
> 
> *****************
> 
> As I wrote this story, another little blond curly haired boy came to mind so I named my story boy Arthur. I would like to gift this little fic to him and his long suffering mother.


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